


Where Old Meets New

by midnightflame



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blade of Marmora Keith (Voltron), Bottom Shiro (Voltron), Established Relationship, Kimono, Kissing, Love Bites, M/M, New Year's Eve, Shrine Visit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-22 16:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13170624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightflame/pseuds/midnightflame
Summary: “Prayers, first,” Shiro finally gets out.Keith answers with a heated huff, eyes flashing.“It’s tradition,” he replies, and there must have been something in that idea because the lightning stops striking in Keith’s gaze and the hand holding his suddenly relaxes its grip.“Tradition then,” Keith says.Seconds later, a small smirk pops up at the corner of Keith’s mouth, leaving Shiro to wonder what devil he’s started courting tonight.(or during a rare span of time off, Shiro gets the chance to introduce Keith to some of the traditions of Earth.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part one of my Sheith Secret Santa exchange for [teicakes](http://teicakes.tumblr.com/) (tumblr)/ [teiandcake](https://twitter.com/teiandcake) (twitter)! There had been several prompts listed on the wish list, and the fact being that I cannot draw to save my own life, I hope you don't mind me taking several of the prompts and combining them into one story for you. So I give you: A BOM!raised Keith with a Kolivan appearance, some hijinks alluded to and played out here as first time experiences between their cultures, traditional Japanese dress for a New Year's shrine visit, cramped space inciting a bit of desire for one another and in part two there will be NSFW with some bottom Shiro.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the story and have had a wonderful holiday season so far! <3

“He appears to be unarmed.”

That is a rather fair assessment, at least as far as Shiro is concerned. Keith is, indeed, unarmed. 

As he should be. 

The man in question is currently standing to the left of a square dark-wood coffee table centered before the couch of their hotel room. Just behind him, the city twinkles beyond the windows as it stretches out into the darkness. Every flicker of light is like a final but brilliant farewell as the day counts down the last few hours it has until the new year bursts into existence. Shiro likes to imagine it like that - those persistent pulses of light, eager to see the end of one year while still valiantly clinging to hope as they wait for the next one to arrive. 

In the same way that goodbye can also mean hello or how an ending might very well be the first stepping stone to a beginning.

He turns to look at the projection hovering above the coffee table. “Well, yes. There’s no need to go to the shrines armed, Kolivan. We’re simply going to greet the new year.”

Confusion knits Kolivan’s brow together, a look that is mimicked on Keith’s face seconds later. 

“You said we were going to have to fight the crowds,” Keith says. There’s a clipped emphasis on the _you said_ , and Shiro can’t help but sigh upon hearing it. 

“It’s a figure of speech.”

“So, then we’re not fighting?”

“No, Keith. We’re not _actually_ going to be fighting.”

“Should he not have some sort of armor at least? If there is the potential for a fight?”

Shiro exhales slowly. He raises his hands in the air, and with palms flat to the ground, begins lowering them as though he might suppress all the would-be’s assaulting the two military minds before him. Or maybe shove them back into whatever box of potential disasters they were trying to clamor out of at this moment. 

“There’s no need for armor either, Kolivan. As I said, it was simply a figure of speech. We won’t be fighting anybody tonight. I only meant there would be a large number of people attending this particular shrine and we will likely encounter a wait before we can offer our prayers.”

He watches as Keith’s mouth purses lightly, and aside from striking him as oddly cute at the moment, Shiro also knows there’s about to be a follow-up on that. Keith taps his foot, plucks at the haori over his shoulders, and finally sets Shiro with a questioning gaze.

“This offers no real protection,” he says matter-of-factly.

Laughter threatens to roll off his tongue. Shiro brings his left hand to his mouth, covering it entirely, and throws a glance between Keith and the screen where Kolivan looks on expectantly for some kind of explanation for that. In all fairness, that is also a reasonable assessment as well. Keith’s current outfit is not meant to offer any sort of protection except perhaps against the cold. The kimono itself is made of a heavy black silk, a faint lion motif embossed over its surface and all but hidden now beneath the haori. That too is made of black silk, with its inner hem lined in a brilliant fire-flaring red. Every time Keith moves his arms, it flashes into view only to be swallowed by the black of the jacket once more. Shiro doesn’t know what undergarment Keith had chosen for it all, but he had caught the flash of red at his neckline when Keith had first emerged from the bedroom, and his mind had run rampant with ideas immediately after that.

 _Nagajuban_. Keith had struggled with the word, his cheeks glowing pink until he had had simply asked Shiro to tell to the shop owner that he would look at several of them in the changing area and decide which one he wanted from there. 

Keith still flushed at the memory of it, but Shiro found himself impossibly entranced by the whole ordeal. Mostly by the awe that had lit up Keith’s gaze as he had looked around the kimono shop, all while Shiro explained the traditional wear to him. And now, as he sees that flare of red along his neckline, he remembers the eagerness to explore his culture, the subtle slips of frustration, all of those little bits that remind Shiro how Keith is more human than he likes to think he is. 

Even if the Blade of Marmora had raised him from a child (Shiro still has trouble using the term _pup_ though he’s trying to embrace it himself), Keith could pass as any other human on the planet. Only in a fight did his lineage give way, but even that other humans could explain with ideas of ‘extensive training’ or ‘incredibly gifted.’ While Keith encompassed all of that, Shiro knew the strength and the stamina he exhibited at times went well beyond any human ideals. 

He is part Galra, just as he is part human.

And Shiro somehow has come to love all sides of this man standing before him, who is still waiting for further explanation as to why one could fight without actually fighting another sentient being standing in his way.

“It’s going to keep you warm, and that’s all the protection you’re going to need tonight, Keith.” Shiro breathes out, then turns to the screen. “It’s a tradition here on Earth, in my home country at least. I promise you though, Keith will be perfectly safe tonight. I give you my word on that.”

Kolivan exhales heavily at those words, his lips drawing to a thin line afterward. “If Keith trusts you-”

“I do,” Keith cuts in, those two words jumping fervently from his tongue. He seems to remember himself after a moment and retracts the step he had taken towards the coffee table, his gaze dropping to the ground. It’s only when Kolivan huffs out the closest thing to a laugh Shiro has ever heard that Keith looks back up and smiles despite himself. 

“I promised to show Keith some of what human culture here is on Earth, and since my chance to return came at New Year’s, I thought I might as well immerse him in some of it. If nothing else, it’s perhaps the one time during the year where most of humanity comes together to celebrate something hopeful.”

Shiro wonders if he said too much, noting the way Kolivan’s mouth appears to tighten again. But just when he’s about to expound upon the idea (or apologize, he hadn’t been sure exactly what would have been most prudent), a small smile blossoms over his lips instead. 

“Hope,” Kolivan says softly. “It’s a worthy lesson.”

*

The shrine is as crowded as Shiro had known it would be. He hasn’t been here since he was a child, but he remembers the press of people all around him, the smells wafting from the food stalls, and the sounds of conversations and bells ringing in the distance. All of it has him smiling warmly to himself, something he becomes acutely aware of when Keith takes his hand and draws his attention away from the better memories of youth.

“You look happy.”

Shiro offers a quiet hum at that. Giving Keith’s hand a gentle squeeze, he takes several steps closer until their bodies bump together. “I am. We haven’t seen each other in weeks, yet here we are. . .”

“Is that all?” Keith asks, but there’s the grin teasing at the corner of his mouth.

It takes him a moment to consider that. _Is that all?_ Shiro looks around him, at the sea of people standing ahead of them and the lanterns strung throughout the grounds. Above him, the skies are dark but clear, and a full moon hangs just over the main building of the shrine. Though the air carries all the chill he had promised it would, he feels none of it. There is only the heat of Keith’s hand pressed against his and that warmth flourishing in his core. 

“When we first met,” Shiro begins, carefully picking through his words, “I wasn’t sure what to expect honestly. Meeting you meant there were others in this universe aware of humanity, and yet I knew how those on my own planet couldn’t have even conceived of anything remotely close to what truly existed out there.”

The murmuring of the crowd swells only to die down moments later as several shouts come from the main shrine grounds. Midnight is approaching, and with it, all the anticipation brought about by new starts, but it’s the crowd’s patience that is being thanked and encouraged by police and shrine attendants alike. 

“That’s it?”

Shiro laughs at that as he draws his gaze back to Keith. “No. . .I think what I’m trying to say is that I would never have imagined this for myself. Not in this lifetime. Not after everything I’ve been through. I didn’t think after I escaped the Galra that I would come to find someone like you. You’re not just an invaluable ally, Keith. . .you’ve given me something more to hope for. . .”

“Because I want you as a mate?” Keith is looking at him with his expression open and earnest, and it nearly drives Shiro’s heart right into the frozen ground. It would make a right pretty mess there, a vibrant red staining the grey pebbles, and not one person would be any the wiser to it.

Just Shiro, standing there and staring at the emotional disarray bleeding at his feet.

The laugh that hits the air next is singed with embarrassment. “I’m surprised Kolivan let you down here with me knowing that much.”

Keith’s eyebrows draw together as they always do when he’s considering something deeply. He gives his head a small nod, then turns to look up at Shiro. “He said it would benefit me to learn more about you and your culture if that is what I truly wanted.”

“And what do you think so far?”

A soft hum for that, full of consideration. “I think you look good in your tradition.”

Shiro feels the heat scald his cheeks, but he can’t look away. Because there’s fire in Keith’s eyes and this promise burning bright of more still to come and he wants to believe there’s something to that smile subtlety taking over Keith’s mouth. It leaves him breathless, lips just slightly ajar as they wait for the words to be released but like a bird second-guessing whether it will take flight, they are left there in limbo, wings spread and the air churning all around. 

When Shiro exhales, the corner of Keith’s mouth takes on a small, knowing curve, and he swears he could damn the man as much as he could exalt him. His own kimono is a bit more subdued than Keith’s, the same soul-devouring sort of black, thick and heavy, but not nearly as lustrous. There’s a peek of silver at his neck and a hint of it threaded throughout his obi in delicate wisps of shimmer. His haori is a matte black and drapes neatly over his shoulders to engulf his arms. It’s Keith, in his opinion, who makes tradition look good. Shiro just happens to be at home in it.

Fingers give his hand a supportive squeeze, one Shiro returns in kind with a chuckle. 

“And you look worthy of the constellations themselves,” he replies, earning him a surprised blink from Keith.

“The stars and their stories you keep telling me about?”

Shiro nods at that, watching as the couple in front of him hold their phones aloft and start snapping pictures together. He catches the bits of the conversation, images to remember one year by and talking of the first ones they’ll take at the end of the countdown to the new one. 

“Yeah. Not just the way you look tonight but your whole life, Keith. One could easily dedicate a constellation to you.”

Keith’s brow knits together again, his mouth pursing as some thought rattles with confusion in his head. “Then. . .” A pause breaks in. Keith’s lips twist slightly as he seems to reconsider his words. “. . .are you not a hero? Your story seems like it should be one, Shiro.”

That’s not the question he expected. Not just something asking him to explain which constellation he was most alike, but the idea standing behind the idea of a hero itself. It’s the last thing Shiro considered himself to be. Back at the Garrison, maybe there had been notions like that, working towards the Kerberos mission, thinking of all that they might find and help expand the horizons as humanity knew them, but his time in captivity had obliterated any potential for being called such a thing. Even as Voltron is paraded around as some universal savior, Shiro feels nothing of it in his blood.

He knows the fear of the fight and he knows how to fight that fear. He knows what it means to cling to something bigger than himself just to keep all the fractured bits functioning and whole. He does not know how to reconcile the things he has done with the term 'hero.' 

“Not all constellations revolve around heroes, Keith,” Shiro says softly. 

“I know this. Some of them are tragedies.”

“You are not going to be a tragedy.”

“I wasn’t saying that -“

“You would have thought your way there.”

Keith gives a hard huff at that, his fingers biting back into Shiro’s hand. “Fine! Then let them be stories and let us be us.”

At those words, Shiro starts smiling wide and tugs Keith a bit closer to his side. Sometimes, the universe gets it a little bit right, but in _that_ , Keith got it absolutely right. With that shotgun response to the world as it comes at him, trajectories calculated and fates considered, he got it right.

“That sounds perfect,” he murmurs against Keith’s ear, a smile still curving his lips as he speaks. “We’ll be us. Just us.”

Keith hums a heavy sound of acknowledgment at those words and takes a small step away from Shiro. “It’s better that way.”

There’s something weighted in the way Keith says that. Like watching a stone sink after it’s skipped over a lake’s surface several times, those words seem to drown in some nameless uncertainty. Shiro gives his hand another press, gentle this time and full of reassurance, and in return, Keith throws a glance up at him. The worry slips from his gaze as their eyes meet. 

It’s that moment when stars align and fates intertwine and everything falls into place all at once. Shiro feels the breath sink hooks in his lungs. Red flashes bright at the back of Keith’s neck, a vivid line between pale skin and black hair. As fingertips brush lightly against his palm, Shiro works to release the breath holding itself in his chest, taking in another and hoping it might displace the one stubbornly stuck. It’s only when Keith slides his fingers into the open spaces between his own that he can finally exhale in full. As he does, a chant starts up around them. 

“Juu!”

The countdown.

Panic breaks into Keith’s gaze, setting fire to the purple of his irises. He takes a step forward, placing himself just before Shiro, and scans over the crowd like a wolf thrown on high alert by an unknown scent on the wind. He tips his head slightly, looks around again, then tightens his grip on Shiro’s hand. When he whips around to face Shiro head on, there’s a touch of anger infusing the alarm spread across his face. 

“You said there would be no fighting,” he accuses.

Shiro arches his eyebrows and looks at the crowd swelling around the main torii gate of the shrine. There are phones lifted high as the countdown dwindles to number five, and the lanterns strung throughout the grounds cast a dusky yellow glow over it all. It’s an odd sort of cozy, with people - natives and foreigners alike - all bundled up and pressed together, eyes fixed on the path before them. He wants to laugh. Really. But the look on Keith’s face tells him he might want to contain it, so the sound slips out as an amused chuckle when Shiro pulls Keith in closer to him.

Keith braces himself against Shiro’s chest with his free hand. His lips part, a protest threatening, but no words charge through as Shiro joins in with the countdown. He keeps his voice soft, warm with reassurance, with the smallest pull of a smile at his mouth.

“Ichi,” he murmurs, bowing his head towards Keith. Their foreheads bump together lightly.

“I don’t understand,” Keith whispers into the space between them. His grip is still tight around Shiro’s hand and there’s still panic burning brightly in his eyes as they search Shiro’s gaze for some sort of answer to this apparent madness.

“Happy New Year.”

Surprise washes the unease from Keith’s expression. He mouths the words silently to himself - _happy new year_ \- as if getting a taste for the concept. As he looks around him again, a quiet sort of awe overtakes even the surprise and Shiro watches as a smile tries to curve his lips. 

“So, time has rolled over?”

Shiro laughs a little at that. “Something like that. At least by the idea of our planet’s orbit.”

“Is a year a long time then?” Keith asks, attention settling on Shiro. His shoulders lower with the exhale that follows, and the grip over his hand returns to something less protective and more _together_. 

Giving his fingers a playful wiggle against Keith’s own, Shiro nods his head to the crowd as it begins to move through the main gate. “A year can be long or short, honestly.”

“But the days of it never change.”

“That’s true,” he affirms. Three-hundred and six-five. Consistent and expected, except for the odd leap year. “I meant in the sense of perspective. Like the same way an hour in battle can seem to drag on when it’s more difficult or you’re facing greater odds versus that same hour spent in the training ring.”

Keith gives a gentle bob of his head in acknowledgment. “I see. . .” His mouth takes on that little twist again. “This past year then. . .how long has that been to you?”

“Only a minute into the new year and already starting with the hard questions,” Shiro laughs. Beside him, Keith’s next step stutters, the toe of his boot kicking up pebbles, and his face becomes enveloped by uncertainty. Lips pull tight; brow furrows. He throws a quick glance up at Shiro before forcing his attention to the bodies steadily progressing towards the main shrine. Shiro can’t help but laugh again at it all as he tugs Keith back to his side. “Don’t you want to hear my thoughts on the last year?”

For a moment, Keith says nothing. He keeps trudging forward, his fingers flexing and unfurling like a cat trying to knead out its anxiety on the softest bits of comfort that it can. Finally, he gives a short but solid nod of his head. 

To say it had been an easy year would have put the notion of understatement to shame. Shiro recounts the months, reluctantly pulling some of them from memory’s shelf, but knowing he had promised an answer and intended to give it with all the honesty Keith deserved. He licks his lips, then bows his head towards the man beside him. 

“Parts of it felt like forever,” he begins. “Like at the beginning. We had just formed Voltron and were still trying to find our place in all of this. Yeah, we were winning battles on our own, but Voltron alone wasn’t going to win this war. And then we found you. . .”

He’s smiling. He can feel the way his lips move as he recalls that moment, where Keith had stood there with a blade at his throat and one at his gut, and Shiro both duly impressed and knowing he couldn’t sacrifice an inch against this being he had hoped to court to his side of the war. What he hadn’t expected was the all too human face that greeted him when Keith’s mask had seemingly disintegrated, revealing pale skin and violet eyes that burned like a star welcoming its death. 

Was it love at first sight?

Shiro doesn’t call it that, but he knows something started beating within his chest, a second heart or maybe some part of his he had forgotten in all those months spent pinning his hopes on survival. Keith had taken a little longer to find that part of himself. It had been a slow but strangely beautiful unraveling into something a bit more human for him. 

“. . .That’s when time seemed to speed up. Between the princess’ plans and starting this coalition with our groups, learning about our new allies, and the continued battles, it was like I couldn’t slow down the moments enough to really remember them. But I remember you in all of it.”

He can hear the clanging of bells, as crisp and clear as the night air around them, just as cutting across his senses. When Shiro glances down, Keith is looking up at him, a touch of wonder in the part of his lips and something a little bit darker burning in his eyes. He knows that look, knows the thoughts pulling themselves from the smoke of dreams, and it has his heart spilling into several too-long seconds of startled beats. With one dedicated step, Keith presses up against his side.

“Shiro. . .”

Keith’s voice is low, warm as molten chocolate, but it carries all the bite of bourbon. And at the very heart of it all, there’s a quiet plea in his name, one Shiro hears all too clearly. He swallows before exhaling a breath. All around them, people are packing in tighter, step-by-step funneling in through the main torii gate. 

Step-by-step, Keith rubs up against him, his impatience almost searing. 

“Takashi. . .”

Shiro almost trips over himself as that name strikes the air. He turns his head and is met with a determined gaze. Keith doesn’t give voice to his next words, but his lips move and Shiro can read the next sentence as plainly as he can the stars in the sky. 

_I want you_.

A shiver spirals down his spine, crashing into his gut and sending remnant tremors coursing through the rest of him. He remembers the first time Keith had said that to him. It had been at the end of a training session, one that had played out like dozens before it, while he had been stationed at the Blade of Marmora’s main base. They had been working together for several months, coordinating missions between the Blades and the Lions, scouting out potential allies. The words had been entirely unexpected, Shiro himself having long shrugged off the notion of human attachment to another being, but there Keith had stood, with gaze fixed firmly on him and everything about his stance ready to claim. As they faced one another, both their chests heaving, the sweat sliding down their skin, and the doors set to open at any second, it had been as simple as that. After months and months of ever-encroaching proximity, of stolen glances and thoughts Shiro considered burning before they insisted he do something stupid, it was as simple as _I want you_.

Not that it was quite that simple afterward. There had been the matter of Kolivan and ideas of human courtship that consistently left Keith dumbfounded or frustrated. (The concept of a date had been a matter of contention for days before Keith finally relented to experiencing one. And when the battle sirens cut into their dinner and conversation, Keith had thrown Shiro a look that made him wish he could cut into the very fabric of space itself and crawl into another dimension.)

But those words now leave Shiro grappling for his senses. He offers a small smile to Keith, willing his heart to start marching to the semblance of a regulated beat and his thoughts to recollect because those words had scattered them to all corners, lost to the images of Keith in his current dress and what he might possibly find underneath. 

“Prayers, first,” Shiro finally gets out. 

Keith answers with a heated huff, eyes flashing.

“It’s tradition,” he replies, and there must have been something in that idea because the lightning stops striking in Keith’s gaze and the hand holding his suddenly relaxes its grip. 

“Tradition then,” Keith says. 

Seconds later, a small smirk pops up at the corner of Keith’s mouth, leaving Shiro to wonder what devil he’s started courting tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is chapter two! This would be the NSFW part with bottom Shiro, so for all other readers, consider yourself warmed. And Tei, I hope you enjoy this part as well! <3 Happy New Year's everyone!

The bells keep ringing, one for every wish. By the time Shiro is standing before the offering box, five yen coin in hand, he’s forgotten all that he had thought to pray for regarding the coming year. There had been the obvious things like universal peace, the safety of his teammates and allies, or a clean end to this war. But all he can see, as he stares at the open slates and the white puffing out with each breath, is the way Keith’s lips had moved when he spelled out his desire in silence. 

_I want you._

Keith had told him that once before and unexpectedly at that. They had just returned from a joint mission, a violent affair that had left the Blade of Marmora short two of its fighters and the Red Lion out of commission. It should have been routine enough, as routine as any battle could hope to be. The logistics had been mapped out for days prior, their allies on the planet primed for resistance and that final push toward freedom. What none of them had counted on was the sudden appearance of a Galra patrol ship or the fleet that had followed in its wake hours later. 

It had turned a fight honed for one pointed strike against ground forces and scattered it into one struggling to maintain itself across multiple fronts. That they had made it out with as few casualties as they had, along with the eventual stabilization of the war front on the planet itself was something of a small but welcomed mercy.

While the questions had continued to rage about whether mere luck or something more insidious had been at play, Shiro had dismissed his team to tend to their wounds, the physical and mental alike, and had sunk himself in the silence of his room. It was Keith who came to tend to Shiro. 

_I want you._

He had stood there in Shiro’s bedroom, gaze fierce and body unyielding before his door. Shiro had laughed at him, even waved a hand to dismiss him at that. But Keith didn’t leave. 

What he learned that night was that near-death wasn’t an aphrodisiac but rather colluded with fear to remind the heart that chances were worth taking rather than by-passing, that sometimes a life taken back from the jaws of eternity was worth pursuing with a primal sort of recklessness.

Keith is standing beside him now, looking at him for guidance. He’s holding his five-yen coin delicately between his thumb and index finger, staring at it like it’s some sort of mythical butterfly, bright and beautiful and fantastic. This simple little thing that will supposedly carry a prayer to the gods. As a faint smile crawls over Keith’s lips, touched with uncertainty, Shiro remembers his wish.

He gives Keith a gentle bump with his shoulder, an even softer smile, and finally tosses his coin into the offering box. It clatters down, the sound resonating with a dozen other prayers being ignited, but the _clink!_ of it settling is lost as he rings the bell before him, bows then claps his hands. Keith mimics his motions a few belated seconds later, turning to him with a grin full of a pride just a bit shy of itself. It makes him look boyish, this man Shiro knows could level a battlefield himself if he’s given the right motivation.

Shiro bows one final time.

For the world to keep burning bright, for his heart to keep beating. . .

Keith trots several steps to catch up with him, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his haori and his body pressing in tight against Shiro’s. 

“That was your tradition?” 

Shiro nods. “Did you offer a prayer?”

“You.”

A blink for that, as Shiro looks over at Keith. “Me? Yeah, I made one.”

“No,” Keith corrects him, voice firm though his gaze refuses to meet Shiro’s. “I prayed for you.”

“But I’m right here.”

There’s a small twitch at the corner of Keith’s mouth, followed by the slow emergence of a smile. It’s heavy in the way smiles shouldn’t typically be, carrying too much behind it to really let it take flight. After a moment of silence, he exhales, gives a shake of his head and whatever weight he had been holding onto evaporates, leaving behind only an amused curve of his lips. “You are. . .and now, maybe my tradition will keep you there.”

*

He sees stars.

Whole galaxies have burst into existence only to fade, their colors dissipating like an ink drop swallowed by the ocean until all that remains is the quiet roar of a heart beating too quick and a shimmering blackness consuming his mind. His lips part and release a soft moan. Beside him, his fingers skate over silk, and Shiro idly wonders what sort of insult could be laid upon cloth by certain brands of stains. 

Would it be easily forgiven, washed away as clean as sweat from skin, or would it linger like sin itself upon a soul, reminding and reminding that choices had been made and not all of them could be outrun? 

His hand clenches around the lighter silk of his nagajuban, and he whines.

He actually fucking _whines_.

Because the truth is, he doesn’t want forgiveness, and he doesn’t want to forget. 

Lifting his head, Shiro looks down the length of his body and finds Keith smiling at him from between his legs. Within five minutes of returning from the shrine, Keith had him deconstructed. His haori now resides in the entryway, having failed to meet a coat hook and now lying on the floor like the too-black warped portal to another world, already forgotten. His kimono managed to find a home on the couch, where Keith had slid him out of it while lips entertained his neck and whispered soft promises into his mouth.

Things like forever, this notion of _them_ strung out like starlight where it would touch the far boundaries of the universe long after they are gone. 

As for his undergarment, Keith had let him wear that a little bit longer, stripping him of his boxer briefs first with a slip of hand beneath the thin silk while he instructed Shiro in undressing him. And Shiro had listened, enrapt, taking orders like a new cadet eager to please. With lips pressed against his ear, Keith explained _tradition_ , his voice low and, like a cat content with its current situation, carrying a slight rumble to it. The very sound of it had an army of goosebumps belly-crawling across his arms and putting a tremor into his core. 

A mutual divesting. Respect ingrained in the act, but more than that, desire. It showed itself in the brush of fingers against cloth, putting weight to skin and images into one’s head to foster the fires of want. 

When Keith had finally pulled open his nagajuban, he delivered a kiss that pulled the very breath from his lungs and turned it into an entire galaxy between them. Shiro saw stars, and he saw life, and he remembered what it was to want to fight for something more than just preconceived notions of right. 

Seconds later, Shiro had found himself on his back, cushioned by the mattress and the blankets they had forgotten to make that morning (Keith had insisted on no maids, so the sign had been hung on the doorknob, and the room had remained in its quiet disarray). 

Standing at the foot of the bed, Keith had stared down at him shamelessly, gaze raking over every inch of him. Shiro felt it like nails dragged across his skin, putting the heat into his core and the blood rushing to his cock. Because Keith had looked like a god of fire himself, born from the darkest stars and burning all the brighter for it. The red that Shiro had noted at Keith’s collar spilled down his chest and pooled at his feet, the color growing darker and deeper as it plunged toward the floor. Like the earth itself had bled and that life-force still lived in the fabric, the silk turning it molten, shimmering and sparking over the length of Keith’s body.

Where his nagajuban had been a monument to smoke, silver swirling with black like a dream half-formed, Keith’s was built from the flame that danced in all souls. Reminding Shiro just how alive he was.

He can certainly feel it now, as teeth sink into his inner thigh and tongue shoots out to soothe the burgeoning bruise. 

“The universe gives us scars,” Keith murmurs. He kisses the mark just made, a reverent press of his lips that leaves Shiro shaking. “But it doesn’t mean the universe owns us.”

He exhales a heavy breath, then licks his lips. Shiro thinks he has a response to that, but Keith is smiling at him like there’s still more to tell and it puts silence on his tongue instead. And, he finds himself waiting for it, his gaze locked on Keith’s and all the promise held within it. He still doesn’t look away when Keith presses a second finger inside of him, even as it pulls another soft whine from his lips.

There are no stars this time, but Shiro swears this is how worlds are made. It’s invasion, and it’s pleasure; it’s adjusting and learning, but mostly it’s staring down your faith in another living being and realizing you aren’t here to defy this but to create. Something more, something bigger, something that recognizes that need in another and the fulfillment of your own. 

He tips his head back the moment Keith’s mouth descends over his cock, enveloping the tip in a wet heat that has him moaning softly. It disappears a moment later, followed by a soft laugh and another bite to his right hip. 

“But these. . .” Keith breathes out over the new mark. “These mean you are mine.”

His whole world falls to fire. It’s searing his lungs and scorching his heart, burning his thoughts right down to ash and putting embers on his tongue. Shiro knows that worlds end. He knows that lives come to crashing halts and dreams can be hollowed out as easily as sucking the marrow from bone. He just never thought someone could end and begin in a single breath.

The next mark Keith makes is over his heart. Reaching down to tangle his fingers in Keith’s hair, Shiro stares up at the ceiling and lets his body speak for him instead. His back arches, hips rolling up and grinding his cock against Keith’s chest. He tightens around Keith’s fingers as they diligently continue working their way in and out of him. When his lips finally part, Keith’s name comes out like a hushed prayer. 

It earns him another finger and another mark scraped against his collarbone. The silk of Keith’s nagajuban runs across his skin, draping over his cock when Keith centers himself and shifts down his body once more. 

Then. . .then there is nothing. 

Keith slides his fingers out, and it’s like the moon was shot out of the night sky. This void creeps in, courting unease. The frustration of want. His cock aches, his body is too hot, and at every point Keith had marked him, it feels like miniature firestorms are burning down the landscape of all that he knows. 

_Patience._

He breathes out.

Seconds later, there’s something slick and sweet smelling dripping over his thighs. Shiro pushes himself up onto his elbows and stares at the liquid streaming down from a small teal glass bottle in Keith’s hands.

“You remember that night in your bedroom,” Keith says with a flick of his gaze upwards.

“Which night is that?” Shiro asks, voice husky, heavy with desire. All he can do is watch as Keith smears his hands with the liquid, and it leaves his heart trying to claw its way out of his chest. His hands curl around silk and sheet alike, fists forming at his sides. 

“That one night. The only night.” A smirk tugs at the corner of Keith’s mouth when he meets Shiro’s gaze again. “I used your thighs because we thought we wouldn’t have enough time. . .”

“Are you. . .?” There’s something hesitant in his voice at that, maybe just a bit disappointed as well. Expectations are a damning thing, and he had thought -

Keith shakes his head. “This oil isn’t the same as that time.”

With his attention drawn back to it, Shiro realizes that to be true. It smells faintly of something like jasmine, conjuring up images of flowers bursting like stars against dark leaves and a moonlit sky, spilling their scent into the night. It’s not the same as that one time (he’s trying desperately not to blush at that memory, of how he had moaned when Keith came between his legs and over his cock) but there's something familiar in it. The scent reminding him a little of this planet he calls home and the warmth of it recalling nights spend connecting and learning, dissecting down hearts and stitching them up whole. 

“We use this one for first times. . “

“Keith, this isn’t. . .”

He gets a short laugh for that. “I’ve made you mine,” he answers, tracing the mark staining his inner thigh. “And this is the first since.”

There is nothing he could have done to stop the blush from infiltrating his cheeks at those words.But it’s glowing there on Keith’s face as well, defiant against the fire in his eyes and the smirk still pulling at his mouth. He sets the bottle aside and begins massaging the oil into Shiro’s thighs, working himself lower and lower until he’s circling his hole and pressing a finger inside once again. This time, Shiro hisses at the intrusion and has to fight his own body’s desire to buck against it. 

When Keith brings a hand to his cock, however, all ideas of fucking himself to an end on Keith’s fingers dissolves, replaced by a desire to thrust into his hand instead. Keith pumps him slowly several times, oiling up his cock before his hands stop all their ministrations, and Shiro is left wondering what devil he has to curse now. 

He wants to offer a protest, has the words poised on his tongue, but when Keith peels back the edges of his nagajuban and reveals his cock, hard and flush against his lower abdomen, they’re left as brittle as leaves, discarded and desiccated at fall’s end. Keith runs his hands along Shiro’s thighs once more, slicking them up again, then strokes himself several times. Enough to draw a soft grunt from his lips and several beads of precum from his cock. 

Shiro’s legs spread wider, hips shifting, body welcoming. Already his cock aches for release, throbbing faintly and demanding touch. He resists, watching instead as Keith lines himself up and presses his cock that first gratifying inch inside. He feels himself tighten around the head of it, causing Keith's brow to furrow. Setting his hands to the underside of Shiro's knees, Keith lifts his legs a little and slides himself in deeper. 

Slow. . .slow. . .slower still. . .

His chest fills with breath, where it’s held for several too long seconds. The last inch is swallowed, and as Keith bottoms out, Shiro’s mouth drops open. It’s satisfying, the way Keith takes his time, making Shiro feel every inch as it's given. Keith slides himself out, eyebrows still knitted together, and begins pumping his hips forward in short, shallow bursts, never quite fully burying himself again. 

Shiro hears that soft whine again, broken apart by his panting, his muscles cording tight as Keith continues with his stunted rhythm. Never enough, it leaves him breathless, crawling his way closer to the edge but always finding it just out of his reach. When their eyes meet, Keith gives him that playful smirk Shiro swears he could wipe clean off his mouth some days.

Like right now. 

He wants to finish. He’s wanted to finish for the better part of half an hour now, but Keith had pulled the potential out of every last second. It’s left Shiro ready to beg for more just as much as he would beg for an end. 

“ _Fuck_. . .”

The word is scraped out between gritted teeth as Keith slams his hips forward. Shiro watches the way Keith’s cock is swallowed by his body. Several hard jerks follow it, pounding deep into him, as Keith’s chest begins to heave and his breathing grows erratic. His own cock twitches, clear fluid dripping from the tip and onto his abdomen. Keith continues like that, driving harder at a pace that has no set rhythm, no perfect rhyme. Just again and again, until Shiro feel the sting against his skin. Continues until Shiro feels his core bunching in on itself, ready to burst.

Then, Keith hitches Shiro’s right leg higher and slams himself deeper still. Teeth graze against the inside of his knee. Another breath later, Keith is open-mouthed moaning against his skin, and Shiro’s world is drowned in darkness. 

He comes, spilling over his stomach, his head thrown back and his eyes screwed shut. Shiro isn’t even sure when exactly Keith finished himself, somewhere in the moments between hitting that black wall of perfect oblivion and swimming in the smoking heat of the aftermath, but he feels that sporadic rhythm stabilizing into something slow and spent. 

Keith rides out his orgasm, the rocking of his hips winding down until he’s barely moving, just sliding himself in deep once more as he leans forward between his legs. Draping himself over Shiro's body, Keith kisses lazily at his chin, then climbs to his mouth to lure another string of them forward. 

Shiro finds himself laughing into the last of them, his hands unfisting and lifting to cup Keith’s face. 

“What’s so funny?”

It’s not accusatory, but curious. Shiro can see it in Keith’s gaze, the questions simmering in the hazy violet of his eyes. He gives a soft hum initially, stroking his thumbs across Keith’s cheeks.

“Your tradition. . .”

“What about it?”

“You look good in it too.”


End file.
